


Desperados Under the Eaves

by anticipatewrites



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-28 00:35:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15036803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anticipatewrites/pseuds/anticipatewrites
Summary: Life hasn't been easy for Dean while his brother has been away at school, so he decides to go check up on him against his father's wishes.





	Desperados Under the Eaves

**Author's Note:**

> This one was a song request fic based on Warren Zevon's Desperados Under the Eaves. As always, I recommend you listen to it for the mood, but there are no lyrics used here. It's short, but not so sweet.

The cheap whisky had quit burning his throat hours ago, so he takes another pull, just to prove he has beaten it. Late afternoon and the sun is shining in angrily through the west-facing windows of the run down motel bar. Drinking alone on a Wednesday. The picture of health. An old window unit air conditioner rattles away in the background. Might as well turn it off for all the good it was doing. The fly that had been buzzing around for the last half hour or so lands on Dean's thumb where it was helping to grip the lowball that's his lifeline. He watches its oil-slick colors dance as it jerks in its fly-gait back and forth on his finger. ‘Hello, friend,’ he thinks as he watches it with blurry eyes. 

The fly jolts suddenly and sets off to continue its futile attempt at escaping the bar. Dean watches it bounce off the hot, sun scorched windows. ‘Keep tryin’, little buddy,’ he thinks at the insect, knowing what it's like to feel trapped. His head is swimming. Partly because of what he had seen and partly because he knew he had defied a direct order and an ass whooping was gonna be in store when he met back up with his dad. These days he was confused about what his job actually was. His whole life it had been, ‘Take care of Sammy, Dean. I'll be back in a few days.’

His very soul balked at the thought of leaving his brother behind. Felt wrong in the same way that what he was doing now felt wrong. Everything was wrong and he didn't know how to right it. Tossing back the remainder of his drink, he signals the bartender for another. He watches the amber liquid fill the glass as he listens to the hum of the air conditioner and the thunk thunk of the fly hurling itself against the glass in futility. 

Seemingly of its own accord, his hand wanders to the bronze pendant that hangs at his chest. Gripping it so tightly that it bites into his fingers, he closes his eyes and says a silent prayer. To who, for who, he didn't know exactly. Maybe to his brother, his light, his responsibility. Maybe to his father, his owner, the one he obeyed and the one whose trust he was maybe breaking right now. 

‘He left us, Dean. He left you. Doesn't understand how important this life is. But you do, son. Don't you?’ 

Dean had simultaneously cowed and inflated at his father's almost-praise. The only thing that he had ever truly wanted for himself, he had thought. But now Sammy was gone and he didn't know what to do. Every morning he woke up in his post-sleep haze to check on his brother, as he always had, and his stomach fell through the floor. He would start sweating and his hands would shake until he got that first shot mixed with his coffee. Dad noticed, but never said anything, pain an expected part of bearing the Winchester name. 

He was up in Windom, Minnesota now. Working a case with some old Hunter buddy of his. And he had left Dean at a rundown motel in Nevada, saying he could handle this one on his own. Stitched him up and reset his remaining son’s shoulder before he left, though. That last hunt was brutal and Dean was glad to have a respite from being the bait. Seemed like John was throttling it all the way into the red since Sam had left. He sat alone, nursing his wounds for two days before he had tried to call his brother, just needing to hear his voice and know he was ok. Hoped he was happy. 

The number twenty seven was swimming in Dean's head. The number of times he'd gotten Sam's voice mail. ‘This is Sam. Leave a message.’ He couldn't take it anymore after the twenty seventh time. Had to see for himself that his brother was ok. Tired of making mac and cheese for one, he'd driven to Stanford, hoping that his brother had that same hollowness in him, knowing that his father would be volatile. 

Arriving on campus, Dean got out of the car that had been their home, a sense of peace washing over him, knowing that his brother was close, superseding the uneasiness swirling in his gut over having disobeyed direct orders. He pulled his phone from the pocket of his father's leather jacket and punched in the numbers he knew by heart. Lifting it to his ear, he heard the familiar sound of ringing that was soon accompanied by a similar sound across the commons area where he was standing. There. Nestled among a group of clean-looking kids was his brother, laughing with the blonde girl sitting next to him. Dean's heart swelled with joy seeing that smile on Sam's face. He could feel it's twin stretching his own cheeks at their inevitable reunion. Watching as his brother reached into his ringing pocket, anticipating the glee he would show at discovering Dean had come all this way to see him, he bounced on the balls of his feet. 

Sam pulled the phone out of his pocket, still laughing with the girl to his right, flipped it open, frowned, and sent it to voicemail. 

As someone who has felt a helluva lot of pain in his life, Dean could definitively say that was the worst blow he had ever been dealt. Like taking a hard hit to the diaphragm, but worse, deeper. Some body part he couldn't name had been injured beyond repair. He fled back to the car, trying to breathe. Needing something, anything, to counteract the rattling of the legos coming from the vents in the dash. 

So, here he is. Made it the twenty miles to San Jose before he had to stop for a drink. Got a room for the night, but doesn't know how he's gonna pay for it. His shoulder aches and the stitches across his ribs pull when he leans over to pick up his glass. The phone in his pocket buzzes and he knows who it is before he answers, doesn't hold on to any hope that it's the one person he wants it to be. 

‘Yes, sir,’ he says, ‘I'll be there in six hours.’ At least he doesn't have to worry about paying for the room. The fly is still beating itself to death against the windows, silhouetted against the dying sun and the shadows of the leafless trees beyond. He wishes it the best of luck, knowing exactly how it feels.


End file.
